


Ovation

by dracoqueen22



Series: Memento Mori [2]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst, Background Character Death, M/M, Sequel, Tactile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:06:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Curtain Call. The consequences of Jazz's actions reverberate through the Autobots, no more so than for Optimus Prime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ovation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AzarDarkstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzarDarkstar/gifts).



> This was written for azardarkstar who gave me the prompt "Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums," by A Perfect Circle.

“Find anything Seaspray?”  
  
The comm-line crackles with static. “No, Prime. It's a mess down here. My sensors don't detect any Cybertronian life but I can't be certain.”  
  
Optimus sits back in his chair, rubbing his face with his palm. “I understand. Please keep looking.” He pauses with a tired ex-vent. “How are your energy levels?”  
  
“Fine for now.” The cheerful gurgle in Seaspray's tones is obviously forced, but Optimus doesn't call him out on it. “Don't worry, Prime. I'll get us some answers. Seaspray, out.”  
  
The line closes out with a quiet click, leaving Optimus staring at the monitor, surrounded by a grim silence. The entire Ark's been filled with a relentless pall as of late, and recent events haven't helped matters. Part of Optimus feels that they could be celebrating. The war is mostly won by this point.  
  
It's a Pyrrhic victory at best. One that came at such great cost, Optimus is not sure if he can call it worthwhile. His spark is heavy with regret, and growing more burdensome by the moment.  
  
 _Jazz..._  
  
“Prime?”  
  
He stirs, sensors registering the approach of his newly appointed third-in-command.  
  
“Any news?”  
  
Hot Spot shifts, uneasy and uncomfortable in his new position. To be fair, all of them are. The open posts are keenly felt by everyone. “You know how good he is at avoiding the cameras.”  
  
Prime sinks further in his chair, elbow on the arm rest, hand pressed to his battlemask. “Then there is nothing.”  
  
“Not exactly.” Hydraulics let out a quiet hiss as Hot Spot shifts again. “Some of the mainframe survived. Red Alert's been sifting through it since the moment Hound brought it back.”  
  
Optimus shutters his optics, knowing what evidence has been found, though wishing it were untrue. “Confirmed presence?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
His ventilations rattle. _Jazz, what have you done?_  
  
“I see. And our prisoners?” Refugees, more like, but until the rescued Decepticons stop ranting and railing against the Autobots, swearing vengeance and promising death, Prime can do nothing but confine them to the brig.  
  
“They didn't see anything. Most of them were lucky.” Hot Spot reaches up, rubbing at his shoulder, fatigue evident in his energy field. None of them have recharged much as of late. “Thundercracker's demanded an audience.”  
  
Of course he has.  
  
“When events have stabilized, I will speak with each Decepticon on a timely basis. For the moment, they will have to settle for having their wounds patched and energon levels restored.” Optimus rubs his face again, feeling a processor ache nagging at the edge of his awareness. Dear Primus, but he wishes Prowl were still online. “Would you relay that to our guests?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Hot Spot lingers, energy field buzzing with uncertainty. Should he leave? Should he stay? Optimus can sense the younger mech's indecision.  
  
But right now, Optimus really would prefer to be alone. The weight on his shoulders is only growing heavier and he feels the loss of his entire foundation with every passing second.  
  
He is the Prime but there is only so much he can do. His new lieutenants are trying, but he can't look at them without remembering the other mechs, the bots that have stood beside him from the beginning.  
  
He dips his helm.  
  
“Seaspray is still on reconnaissance around the remains of the Nemesis. Ensure that he doesn't fall out of contact and stays energized.”  
  
Optimus knows his troops after all. He knows how eager Seaspray can be to please, especially now, and he wouldn't put it past the minibot to push himself past the limits. Especially since Ratchet is no longer here to spew fire and pitslag in punishment.  
  
Hoist and First Aid are brilliant medics, compassionate and dedicated. But they are not and will never be Ratchet.  
  
Optimus' spark contracts again.  
  
“Sir?”  
  
He stirs, waving a dismissing hand at Hot Spot. “I apologize. My processor wandered.” Optimus clears his vents. “Red Alert is due a break soon as well. Wrangle Wheeljack to convince him if you must. The President is going to call by the end of the evening. And--”  
  
A hand lands on his shoulder, energy field no longer buzzing with unease but now pushing soft waves of consolation at him. “I will handle it, Prime. Do not worry.”  
  
Hot Spot pauses and Optimus thinks to speak, but his third-in-command beats him to it. “You should consider getting some recharge yourself, sir. You haven't defragged in days.”  
 _  
Isn't it past time for you to get a little recharge, Boss-bot?_  
  
Vocals echo in Optimus' memory banks, as though their owner had just spoken the words. Is, in fact, standing right next to him.  
  
His plating clamps tightly to his frame, energy field closed off in the next moment. “Thank you, Hot Spot. I'll take your suggestion into consideration.”  
  
Hot Spot's hand drifts away, taking his consoling energy pulses with him. There's a chill in the air between them now, one of disappointment and pity.  
  
“That's all I ask, sir.”  
  
Hot Spot hesitates, as though wanting to say something more but unsure of the words, before he turns on a pede and leaves Optimus to his silent contemplation of Teletraan One's monitors.  
  
Human networks are buzzing, every channel discussing the recent discharge in their ocean, in the area known for concealing the Decepticon base. Commentators are discussing the likelihood of Decepticon survival. They are openly debating cause and effect. Many are asking, “is the war over?”  
  
How can it continue?  
  
Currently, the Autobots have five Decepticons in their brig, in various states of functioning and repair. Other Decepticons are suspected to have survived the blast, but their current whereabouts are unknown. The known death tolls are staggering, some offlined by the explosion, others offlined under suspicious circumstances. At least, as far as First Aid and Hound have been able to divine.  
  
They are not so suspicious to Optimus. He knows, just as well as Trailbreaker has reasoned, who is behind the destruction of the Nemesis, the assassination of several of its inhabitants, and the deaths of the rest caught in the blast.  
  
 _What was your breaking point?_ Optimus asks this of a mech who can no longer hear him. _Where did I fail in making you believe this was the only option we had left?_  
  
The ache in his spark grows more tangible, the frenetic energies whirling within his chamber, as though aching to be free.  
  
What had he missed? Why hadn't Optimus seen this coming? There should have been signs, something to indicate Jazz's intentions.  
  
There had been nothing that night, nothing but the usual coy smile of his newly promoted second-in-command. The inviting press of a familiar energy field and the warm rumble of a high performance engine.  
  
 _Paperwork. To many mechs, it is the bane of their existence. Ratchet, Optimus knows, used to abhor it. The datapads would stack on the CMO's desk so high that eventually the towers of unsigned reports would topple over.  
  
Only then would Ratchet attend to them, grumbling all the while, working through his shift until he was completely caught up. And then, the process would begin all over again. It was a long-standing bet. How long would it be until the new stack fell? Would Prowl's stern glares ever work on the stubborn medic?  
  
Nowadays, all medical paperwork is completed on time, expertly filed, and the CMO's office is an organized system that would make any file clerk proud. Every time Optimus so much as glances at that regulated desk, his fuel pump stutters. He takes great care to avoid the medbay, and makes a swift exit when repairs are completed.  
  
If First Aid is hurt by his absence, the young medic doesn't show it. Perhaps because he feels the loss of Ratchet just as cuttingly.  
  
Paperwork.  
  
Prowl enjoyed paperwork. It was steady, unchanging. There is a logic to paperwork that Prowl relished. He took great joy in manipulating the system, in outwitting the humans at their own efforts to throw policy at the Autobots, or drag their heels on certain requests.  
  
Sometimes, Optimus would come back to his office and find not only Prowl's datapads waiting to be signed off and approved, but that some of his own paperwork would be done as well. His second would pretend innocence, but he couldn't hide the smug flick of his doorwings.  
  
Paperwork.  
  
It used to be an unfortunate, but familiar necessity. One Optimus submitted to because he had to and it was processor-numbing. It was a great distraction, a way to simply not think for a few hours.  
  
Supply requests and disciplinary hearings and schedule changes and diplomatic meetings and battle reviews...  
  
Too many memories revolve around paperwork and Optimus regards the stack of datapads on his desk with nothing short of loathing. A hatred which has nothing to do with their content or the work required, and everything to do with the faceplates that spring to life in his memory core at the mere sight of them.  
  
“Isn't it past time for you to get a little recharge, Boss-bot?”  
  
Optimus looks up, his second-in-command lounging in the frame of his open door, arms crossed under his bumper.  
  
“These days, recharge does not come easily, my friend,” Optimus answers, welcoming the distraction from the work he isn't completing.  
  
Jazz's easy smile falters, but only for a second. “Yeah. I can see that.” He pushes himself up straight, the motion languid and enticing. “Maybe all ya need is one of my patented relaxation techniques.”  
  
Comfort. As of late, they've all been reaching for it with both hands and their energy fields extended. Optimus doesn't know of a single mech amongst his crew who recharges alone anymore. Not even the most irritating or querulous among them.  
  
Optimus pushes his chair back and rises to his pedes, circling around the desk. “Perhaps we could both use some recharge.”  
  
“Can't fool me, Boss-bot,” Jazz says with a wicked grin and a teasing caress of his energy field, sliding over Optimus' plating in blatant temptation. “Ya just can't resist me.”  
  
“You are a force with which to be reckoned,” Optimus replies, his hand landing on Jazz's shoulder and sliding inward, cupping first the juncture of neck column and shoulder before cradling the curve of Jazz's helm and jaw. His thumb sweeps over Jazz's faceplate, the tip brushing the edge of the visor.  
  
Jazz's helm tips up expectantly, the curve of his mouth so tempting. “Isn't that what you hired me for?”  
  
“Among other things.” Optimus' vents hitch as Jazz turns his helm, capturing Optimus' thumb with his mouth and giving it a flick of his glossa.  
  
“We can do this here and now,” Jazz purrs against Optimus' digit, energy field a pulsing push against Optimus'. “Or we can hit the berth. Yer choice, OP.”  
  
Optimus' engine rumbles. “Recharge is better suited to a berth, is it not?”  
  
“Only for those with no imagination,” Jazz retorts cheekily. He reaches up and grasps Optimus' hand nonetheless. “But I think I can bear it this time.”  
  
Some of the tension squeezing Optimus' spark eases away and he lets the smaller mech tug him away from his office, their pace more hurried than is dignified. Luckily, the halls are empty, save for the cameras and their endless scrutiny. No doubt Red Alert is watching and Optimus imagines that his Security Director probably has the faintest of fond smiles on his faceplate.  
  
Later, Optimus will have to make his way to the command center to reward Red Alert for his diligence. And also, convince the dedicated mech to take a break for the sake of his own functioning.  
  
Such thoughts bring a smile to Optimus' own lipplates, though none can see it.  
  
By virtue of necessity, Optimus' quarters are within a reasonable distance of his office, something Ratchet had dictated as non-negotiable since he refused to give Optimus any more excuses to recharge in his office. Prowl had suffered under the same indignity and Optimus in-vents sharply at the memory. Melancholy has no place at this moment.  
  
No. He has Jazz beside him, alive and energy field ripe with promise. Jazz whose visor is lust-bright and who all but yanks Optimus into his own quarters, the door sealing behind them with a quiet chirp.  
  
Jazz's hands seem to be everywhere, flittering over Optimus' frame, dipping into armor seams and dancing over transformation joints. A groan rattles from Optimus' vocalizer, arousal spiking through him, energy field filling the small confines of his quarters.  
  
A hum rumbles in Jazz's chassis, visor brightening. “That's it, Boss-bot,” he murmurs, backing toward the berth and pulling Optimus in his wake, like he were magnetically drawn. “Take a deep breath and relax.”  
  
“I should ask the same of you,” Optimus replies, reading the barely present lines of tension in Jazz's frame. He sweeps a hand over Jazz's arm-mounted tire, flicking one into a lazy spin. The other busies itself on a speaker at Jazz's hip, which none-too-subtly pushes into his touch.  
  
Jazz makes a noncommittal noise. “We could go on like that all night. Tryin' to out-give each other. Or we could hop on the berth and interface ourselves offline.”  
  
Affection swells thickly in Optimus' spark and he grasps his second with both hands, lifting and placing Jazz on the berth in one smooth motion. “I prefer the latter option.”  
  
He lowers his helm, dragging his facemask over the curve of Jazz's bumper, trailing static in his wake. His field pulses need and desire twining eagerly with the fond arousal Jazz pushes back.  
  
“Me, too,” Jazz says with a stuttered cycling of his vents.  
  
He reaches up, one hand petting Optimus' windshields as he curls one leg around Optimus' thigh, hauling himself up for a resonating grind. Metal shifts against metal, sparking static in a bright dance between them. Optimus groans, helm dipping, pushing against Jazz's until he can press his mouthguard to a sensory horn.  
  
Jazz's engine revs noisily, tilting his helm toward Optimus' mouth in entreaty. Optimus is all too happy to oblige, vocalizer activating and pushing steady vibration against the sensitive crests. Jazz arches beneath him, an altogether arousing sight, his frame scraping up against Optimus' in delicious burrs of friction.  
  
“Yeah, that's the spot,” Jazz pants, hands scrabbling against Optimus' plating, nimbler fingers easily dipping into gaps at Optimus' side and taking advantage of sensitive circuitry buried there.  
  
Optimus chuckles, loving the slick slide of Jazz's thighs against his hips, the weight of Jazz's pedes pressing against his backplate. He braces himself with one hand and plants the other on Jazz's ventral plating, curling his fingers up and under the saboteur's bumper. He brushes a dense sensor cluster and is treated to the sight of Jazz's visor flaring with arousal, his energy field a pressing wave of need.  
  
Need swells within Optimus, echoing in his energy field. He leans down, mouthguard pushing harder pulses against Jazz's sensor-laden helm. There's nothing quite like his second-in-command squirming beneath him, the rough quality of Jazz's vocals, the breathy ventilations. Moments like these, it's easy to forget the pain beyond this berth and Optimus' quarters.  
  
“Torturer,” Jazz gasps out, fingers clinging to Optimus' armor. His engine throws out a heavy throb that attacks Optimus' circuitry.  
  
Heat cascades through Optimus' sensory net, his vision laced with static for a brief moment. He cycles a ventilation, but his frame's eagerness betrays him. His spark pulses, desperate and wanting, and Optimus' chestplates part a fraction, pale sparklight spilling into the space between them. Request and invitation both.  
  
Jazz's visor flashes. “Optimus,” he murmurs in that circuit-sizzling voice of his, and there's an odd note of regret to his vocals. His hands smooth upward, over Optimus' ventral armor, to cup his chestplates where he ever so gently presses the parted sections back together. “Not this time.”  
  
“I understand.” It wouldn't be the first time, after all, that either of them have abstained from such an intimate gesture.”Another time perhaps.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jazz replies, lips quirking in a wry smile. “Next time.”_  
  
“Prime?”  
  
Optimus straightens in his chair, optics onlining, as the chirp of his comm unit pulls him from the painful memory. That had been the last time...  
  
“Yes, Blaster?”  
  
“I'm picking up chatter on a Decepticon channel,” Blaster replies, and it feels like a punch to the chestplate, how very subdued and cheerless the carrier mech sounds now. He's lost the happy clip to his tones, the rhythmic lyrics. “Seems like ole Screamer jumped ship before the Nemesis went belly up.”  
  
Optimus frowns. Starscream's survival is not unexpected. That Seeker seems to have an uncanny knack for it. How else could he have lived all these millions of years within range of Megatron's fusion cannon and still be alive to wreak havoc today?  
  
“Who is he contacting?”  
  
“Best guess?” His second-in-command, at least until Ultra Magnus can be located and contacted, makes a thoughtful noise through the comm. “It's a general shout out. Tryin' to see who's left.”  
  
“Anyone respond?”  
  
“Yeah, but I can't identify. Too much interference. I'll clean it up and let ya know.” Blaster pauses, and Optimus can read his exhaustion in that minute hesitation. “Just thought ya should know we have more survivors out there. What little good that does.”  
  
Optimus' fingers rap over the arm of his chair. “Thank you, Blaster.”  
  
“No sweat. But... any feedback from Seaspray yet?”  
  
Just like the exhaustion, Optimus can also hear the hope in Blaster's vocals. A fruitless hope because Jazz has always been so very good at what he does. If he intended for them to find anything, they would have by now.  
  
Truth batters at Optimus' processor, trickles down to his vocalizer. What emerges, instead, is a redirection.  
  
“It has only been a couple of days, Blaster,” Optimus says gently, too gently really. As though delaying the inevitable will make the pain any less agonizing or easier to bear.  
  
 _Was there no other choice?_  
  
“Don't give me that, Prime,” Blaster retorts, and there's not only a sharp note to his vocals, but a distinct lack of his usual aplomb. “You know as well as I do that 'Spray ain't gonna find nothin' because there's nothin' to find. Jazz made frag well sure of that.”  
  
The comm cuts off.  
  
Prowl would have gone frosty with anger at such a display of disrespect. Optimus can only ex-vent wearily and shut down his end of the comm, so that it no longer buzzes in his systems with the static of a dropped communication.  
  
He could berate Blaster. Put a mark on his file. Rebuke him. But what would it help? What purpose would it serve?  
  
Besides, it is not Optimus who has angered Blaster. He is merely the stand in for a pain that has no outlet.  
  
Optimus rubs his faceplate, frame tense with exhaustion.  
  
Days ago, upon emerging from recharge, he could not have expected Red Alert's comm. He'd onlined alone, Jazz gone from his berth, which was not unusual. Jazz never could stay the entire recharge cycle. It was a quirk of his.  
  
He had left an energon cube for Optimus, however. Optimus had looked at it, warmed by his second's thoughtfulness. And that's when Red Alert's comm had fractured his quiet morning.  
  
Sensors in the Pacific Ocean were off the charts. There had been reports of an explosion. Known Decepticon channels were filled with garbled static. A few mechs had managed a distress signal, but who they expected to offer aid, no Autobot was certain.  
  
And Jazz was gone.  
  
No one could find him. Comms went unanswered. No one had seen him since Optimus had fallen into recharge with Jazz tucked close to his frame.  
  
It had not been difficult to draw the lines, connect the dots, and come to an unthinkable conclusion.  
  
Why?  
  
The reasons haunt him. Optimus has a thousand guesses. He can speculate upon Jazz's motivations. The war has ground them all down, reduced the Autobots bit by bit, gray frame by shattered spark.  
  
One by one, Optimus has felt his own spark being ripped to pieces. Ratchet and Prowl and Ironhide and so many others. Bots he's fought beside, bled beside, laughed with and shared energon.  
  
When did it become too much? When was it that Jazz decided to end it on his terms? Where had Optimus failed?  
  
It is the failure that strikes him the hardest.  
  
If he had been less merciful, more inclined to do what was necessary, could he have won the war sooner? Could he have beaten Megatron without so many senseless deaths? Could he have spared Jazz's sacrifice?  
  
A shudder wracks Optimus' frame, melancholy seeping in through all the cracks, threatening to overwhelm him. This time, there is no familiar voice to ease the pain, to remind him of the hope that he sometimes has trouble grasping for himself.  
  
A pained chuckle escapes Optimus, a grating noise that holds little humor and eons of bitter regret. What would Jazz say to him now, he thinks, if he saw Optimus in such a state.  
  
 _Yer letting all my hard work go ta waste, Boss-bot._  
  
He presses his forehelm to his palm, drawing long, slow ventilations. He no longer feels fit to command the Autobots or to lead them into what they hope to be a new age of peace. But he cannot deny the gift he has been given either.  
  
The Autobots still need him, his friends and family need answers. The humans await word of the end of a war and Optimus cannot continue to indulge himself in self-pity.  
  
Optimus forces himself to his pedes, chair shooting out behind him. Teletraan's monitor offers nothing but more questions and he has work to do. Reparations must be paid. There are five Decepticons in his brig, uncertain of their fates, and Optimus owes them a moment of his time.  
  
The war is over and they have Jazz to thank for this. And Optimus will not let his last, desperate act go to waste.  
  


***


End file.
